


Ghost

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Stranger - Freeform, Anger, Blog, Boredom, Comfort, Confession, Confusion, Cuddling, Death, Drugs, Flirting, Heartbreak, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Memories, Panic, Pouting, Reunion, Scared Sherlock, Sherlock's Past, Suicide, The skull - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing going on at Baker Street, and Sherlock is looking for something to work on. When he finally finds a mystery, though, it's not what he expected and not one he's sure he can handle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boredom

**Author's Note:**

> Dear fandom,
> 
> This is Thanksgiving week in the US, and we are very grateful for all of you. It makes us so happy to share our work with you and get your feedback.
> 
> Here it is: the whole story. Thanks to those who kept coming back!
> 
> We hope you enjoy!

Sherlock looked over at John, who was sitting on the sofa with his laptop, staring at the screen stupidly, occasionally typing a few words with one hand while the other held his mug of tea. He looked . . . happy, satisfied, like this was a perfectly good afternoon. Like everything was just fine in the world of John Watson. It was incredibly annoying. Why wasn't John bored like Sherlock was? They hadn't had a case for over a week. Why wasn't John going mad like Sherlock was sure he was?

"What on earth are you doing over there?" Sherlock finally asked, his voice filled with irritation.

John took a deep breath before he answered. He was well accustomed to this game now -- they hadn't had a case in a while so Sherlock was like a crabby toddler. John would not give in. "I am answering comments on the blog, trying to get us some more attention and possibly more cases," he said. 

"Well, it hasn't been working very well, has it?" Sherlock said. He had a pencil in his hand -- why were there even pencils in the flat? No one used pencils anymore. He broke it in half and stood up to get a cup of tea. "Yeah, fine, I'll make the tea since you're 'working' so hard over there," he pouted as he turned on the kettle.

John ignored the outburst and put his mug down, glad he would get a fresh one. His had long gone cold. They had a very active user on the blog, a new fan suddenly leaving comments on a lot of their cases, even old ones from when John had first started the blog. 

Sherlock poured the tea and brought John's cup over, sitting it on the table before sitting himself down. He took a small sip of his own tea, despite it being too hot. "John," he said. "I've got a secret, I'm afraid, but I've decided to confess. I'm . . . bored and my mood may be reflecting that boredom. Could you please do something to fix that, please?"

John didn't look up at first, sure that Sherlock was just being dramatic. But the rest of the phrase made him look up at Sherlock. What exactly what Sherlock asking? It didn't matter -- Sherlock never asked for help, and he hardly ever used manners. "Okay, look. Why don't we go for a walk or something? We can get out of the flat for a bit?" He sipped at his tea and hummed softly. "Let me just answer one more -- this man Bill has commented on almost every case I've posted," he said. 

"Well, I'm not interested in pathetic people who have nothing better to do than comment on websites, so unless Bill has a case, he can fuck off for all I care," Sherlock said, turning his annoyance to this online stranger. He took another sip of tea and added, "Yes, getting out of the flat is a good idea." He carried his half full mug to the sink and then moved to the door to put on his coat. He looked over at John. "Come on then," he said impatiently.

John startled a bit at his aggressive tone, but he quickly sent off the last message and stood to get ready. "Don't shout at me," he told Sherlock sternly as he put his coat on. 

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, pulling John out the door. Once they were on the street, he started walking but asked, "Where are we going?"

John shrugged. "I didn't have a destination in mind -- I just wanted to get you out for a bit. Let's take the long way around the park and then cut through it to get home." That should get them an hour's walk if they didn't go too fast.

"All right," Sherlock said. "So . . . you're well?" he asked as if they were old friends who'd just bumped into each other after being apart for years. "All's going well with you?"

John threw him an amused smile. "Yeah, everything is going well. Keeping busy at work," he said. "And you?"

"I'm not keeping busy at work, John," Sherlock said. "I'm bored. I'm not like you -- I don't have hobbies like going to the surgery and looking in people's noses. The only hobbies I've ever had were . . . 'unhealthy' ones," he made air quotes and rolled his eyes. "I need to find us a case."

"My job isn't a hobby, Sherlock. My hobby is what you've just pulled me away from." He smiled to show he wasn't actually angry. "Something will turn up soon. Criminals can't help themselves."

"So you say," Sherlock said. He glanced over at John. "What hobby of yours are you talking about?"

"The blog, you goof!" John shoved his arm lightly and laughed. "Maybe that Bill guy will have a case for you."

"The blog's not a hobby -- it's part of our work. No wonder we've got no cases if you have such an attitude," Sherlock said. "I thought you meant your masturbation habit anyway."

John balked. "I don't have a habit of . . . that," he said. "Besides, you're the one harassing our readers so if anyone is to blame, it's you."

Sherlock looked over at him and smirked. "It's chilly," he said. "Let's stop and get a coffee." He motioned towards a coffee shop and held the door open for John.

"Okay," John agreed, picking a table by the window and sitting down.

Sherlock came back from the counter carrying two cups of coffee. He pulled something out of his coat pocket. "Here," he said. "I got you a pastry." It was wrapped in a napkin. He sat down and put his hands around the warm mug. "There are hundreds of crimes and betrayals happening right at the moment, John -- why is no one contacting us to solve them?" He stared through the window at the people on the street.

"Maybe they really are stupid," John said, smiling at the little jam tart. "I'm sure when they are not in shock, all of them will flood Baker Street."

"Maybe," Sherlock said, still staring out. He took a few sips of coffee, just staying quiet as he did. "Do you like being at Baker Street?" he asked, finally breaking the silence. "With me, I mean? We're okay, right, even though I'm . . . even though I annoy you?"

"You don't --" John started but he cut off. "It's never too serious," he corrected. "I like Baker Street. It's exciting."

"Good," Sherlock said and smiled a little. He looked over at John. "Except not right now. It's boring now. But it'll be exciting again, when we get a case."

"Sherlock, it's never boring with you," John smiled. "You're the one who's bored all the time."

"Good point," Sherlock said. "So really, it's kind of your fault that everything's boring. Hmmm, I can't tell if that makes me feel better."

John rolled his eyes and finished his tart, sipping on the warm coffee. "You don't even try to enjoy hobbies -- it's been a while since I've seen you experiment on anything," he said. 

"And by 'experiment' do you mean masturbate?" Sherlock asked, smiling. "Just because you haven't seen me doing it doesn't mean I don't." He laughed a little.

"What is wrong with you tonight?" John laughed. "If you are trying to get some, you're barking up the wrong tree -- surprise date, bribery with pastries, I don't think so," he teased. 

"I'm fine in that department, John, I don't need your help," Sherlock said. "I'm hurt you think my kindness is bribery. However, if it were bribery, it'd be to get you to find a case, not to pleasure me sexually." He finished his coffee. "John, please find a case . . ." he whined dramatically.

"If I were at my computer, maybe I could!" John said. "Stop whinging and let's keep walking. Maybe you'll find something along the way."

"Fine," Sherlock said, standing up. They headed out and back to the flat. A man in shorts passed them. "He looks suspicious," Sherlock said, leaning a bit towards John. "Should we go interrogate him?"

"What are you going to ask him?" John asked, raising his brows. 

"From which foreign country with high temperatures has he just fled and why?" Sherlock smiled. He glanced over at John. This little walk idea of his had actually helped Sherlock's mood a lot.

"Let the man have his walk. Let's just check our blog when we get back and if there really is nothing at all, we can come back out and track him down," John said. 

"Fine," Sherlock said. They chatted the rest of the way back to the flat. As they were letting themselves in, Mrs Hudson came out of her flat. "You had a visitor," she said to them.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, hoping it wasn't -- a face-to-face visit with his brother was rarely good news.

"No," she said. "I've never seen him before -- maybe a new client?"  
  
"Great," Sherlock said. He turned to look at John angrily. "Your stupid walk idea has now led to us losing a client. Well done." He turned and stomped up the stairs.


	2. Distractions

John and Mrs Hudson both watched him go. "Why is he in such a mood?" she asked, even though she could guess the answer. "Anyway," she said, turning back to John. "The man left his number. I don't know if he was a client or not, but here." She handed him a scrap piece of paper. "Good luck with him upstairs. Don't let him be mean to you."

"Thanks," John said, looking up the stairs before heading up himself. He hung his jacket and went into the sitting room. "He left a number," John said a bit sharply, tossing the paper at him. "Don't shout at me again." He turned and went into the kitchen to make tea.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled. "I'm just so . . . I don't know. I think I might take a hot bath. Do you want to call him?"  
  
"Yeah, I'll call," John said, as he watched Sherlock go. John called the number and got himself a pad and pen to take initial notes for Sherlock. The phone rang on and on, but John stayed on the line, hoping for a voicemail. Finally, there was an answer.

"Hello?"

"Yes, hi. This is John, you stopped by Baker Street before but we were out . . . hello?"

Whoever was there had hung up the phone. When John called again, there was no answer.

Sherlock ran a bath and grabbed his pajamas to change into afterwards. The hot water felt good -- it helped to relax his body even if he still struggled to relax his mind. He realised he felt a bit bad about snapping at John. It wasn't a big thing -- probably John had already forgotten about it -- but he felt bad that he did those things without thinking first. It'd been a long time since he'd cared about another person's feelings in the way he now seemed to care about John's. In all honesty, it worried him a bit, but he couldn't deny it was true. When the water started to cool, Sherlock dragged himself up and grabbed his pajamas from the radiator where he'd set them to warm up. He felt much calmer now. He headed out of the bathroom to put the kettle on.

John hoped Sherlock's mood was a little better now. He also hoped that his news about the phone call wouldn't set him off again. They'd missed the case and John couldn't secure a meeting. "Sherlock? I called but . . . he hung up on me and then didn't answer when I tried again." 

"Damn it --" Sherlock started and then stopped himself. "That's fine. We can try tomorrow or maybe he'll come back. It's fine." He poured two cups of tea and carried one into John. "Want to watch telly or something or have you got work to do?" he asked, settling in on the sofa.

"You -- it's okay?" he asked. He took his mug and sat on the sofa. This was new.

"Yeah, come on, let's take the night off," Sherlock said. "We'll probably get something new tomorrow, so um, let's just enjoy the rest of the night." He knew that he was trying to convince himself, more so than John. Would it be so bad to just stop thinking for one night?

"Um, okay. Yeah," John nodded. He sat with Sherlock and put the telly on, turning it to the news.

Sherlock lifted his feet and set them on the table as he wiggled down to get a little more comfortable. He stared at the television for a few moments. It was hard to sit still. "The walk was good," he said for no reason at all except to say something.

"Yeah, I enjoyed it," John said. He glanced at his laptop but didn't get up to get it.

"Yeah, it was good," Sherlock said. He stared at the television for a little longer. "You working tomorrow?" he asked.

"Nope." John sipped at his tea. "I'm going to work on the blog for a bit while I have the day off. Hopefully we can get a case," he added.

"John, stop talking about work, we're supposed to be relaxing," Sherlock said. "Pick something relaxing for us to talk about."

"Okay," John said and then thought for a moment. "You were pretty keen on masturbation earlier -- what was that about?"

Sherlock was now regretting having joked about that earlier. But he also knew that deflecting the question was likely to bring up different questions, which probably wouldn't be any easier to address. "Well, I'm not sure I'd use the word keen, but yeah, I've done it, I mean, I sometimes do it. What's your point?"

"I just wondered why it came up on our date," John grinned.

"It wasn't a date, was it? It was your idea -- if it had been a date, you should have clarified, I would have bought you a corsage," Sherlock said, smiling. He glanced over. "Don't try to get into my head, John, to try to figure out . . . something. You mentioned your hobby, I naturally assumed masturbation -- that's all it was."

"I'm not trying to 'get into your head'," John chuckled. "Lord knows I wouldn't make it out alive."

"True," Sherlock laughed. "Anyway, since you brought it up, maybe you could answer a question. Why are you so addicted to self-abuse?" he asked, raising his eyebrows up and down.

"And what does that mean?" John asked, raising his brows.

"I mean, why do you do it all the time? It's really only good for helping with boredom -- you do it quite frequently, does that mean you're bored living here?"

"I don't do it that much . . . and no, I'm not bored. I just sometimes . . . need that."

"Need what?" Sherlock asked. This was actually kind of an interesting conversation -- besides the teasing, they'd never really talked about anything like this.

John thought about the answer. What he actually wanted wouldn't serve as a good answer -- pleasuring himself didn't make him feel the love he was seeking. He shrugged. "Release, I guess."

"What stresses you out so much that you need release . . . every single morning in the shower?" Sherlock said. He was still smiling, but he did wonder if he was doing something that upset John so much.

"It's not every morning, you weirdo. Besides, sometimes I have nightmares I can't shake off or . . . I don't like sleeping alone. It's a fast way to flood your body with good feelings, an instant pick me up. A distraction."

Sherlock looked over at John. It seemed like he was being honest. "You know if you have a nightmare, you can always come wake me up. I realise being with me isn't an 'instant pick me up' but I'd be happy to distract you."

"I never wanted to bother you," he said with another small shrug. "Why do you do it, then?"

"Boredom," Sherlock said flatly. "It keeps me busy for an hour or two."

"Two hours? What do you think about for all that time?"

"Very complicated scenarios . . . a cast of thousands . . . and besides, it takes me a good 15-20 minutes to set up all the equipment," Sherlock said, looking over at him cheekily.

John rolled his eyes again as he chuckled. "You know, you have a lying problem," he said. 

"I do not have a problem with lying -- I'm excellent at it," Sherlock laughed. "Anyway, I don't think of anything, do I, I just…you know, do it. Then I usually go to sleep for a bit. Totally normal so don't bother reading anything into it."

"But now I am curious as to what passes through your head when you want to get off," John smiled. "What gets the famous Sherlock Holmes all heated up?" John giggled as if they had been drinking. What an odd conversation! He assumed Sherlock's attitude improvement was having an effect on him -- it had been a long time since they just relaxed like this. 

"Sorry to let you down, Dr Watson, but this time I am being honest -- there's nothing in my head while I do it," Sherlock explained. "I mean, that's the whole point -- it's one time I can turn off my brain, my logic, my memory, everything." He glanced over. "No, wait -- I do remember once thinking of something while I was doing it . . . yeah, it was about a month ago. An image of you popped into my head. You were wearing a tutu and performing in a circus. With elephants. So I guess I must find your public humiliation a turn on. That's it, though." He smiled even more cheekily.

John laughed. "You're an idiot," he said. 

"Whatever," Sherlock said. "Don't mock my private life." He stretched a little and then sat up. "I think I might go to bed." He looked over quickly. "Not to do that, just to sleep."

"Oh sure, after I've been sprawled out beside you for the last hour?" John chuckled. "You can't fool me."

"Fine," Sherlock said, standing up. "If I do it, I'll think of you -- tutu and all." He set his mug in the sink and then decided to wash it up. Before he headed into his room, he turned to John and said, "I'm serious about the nightmares, though. You know where I am -- I wouldn't mind." 

John looked over his shoulder at him and nodded. "Thanks," he said. He watched Sherlock go into his room. After a few minutes he turned everything off and went to bed himself, bringing his laptop along with him. He was happy with the way the night turned out -- they had not only avoided more bullet holes in the wall, but they had actually had a pleasant time hanging out. He got ready for bed and opened up the blog again. Six new messages were there, all from Bill who had finally finished all of their cases to date. John only replied to a couple of them, promising more to come with the last one. It was a bit odd, if he was honest. All of the others left one comment at the end, giving their praise for all in a general statement. Oh well. Maybe the higher comment numbers would make others more interested and bring cases along. He shut the computer and lay down to sleep.  

He was thinking about what Sherlock had said about the nightmares now, trying to imagine himself getting out of bed and walking to Sherlock's, the same way he used to walk to his mum's when he was little. He flushed lightly and shook his head even though he was alone. He appreciated the sentiment, but he could never do that. He shifted on his back and then his other side, trying to get comfortable. Eventually he dozed off and he slept deeply without any troubling dreams. 


	3. Sherlock Tries

In the morning, Sherlock got up early, showering and getting dressed and moving straight to the laptop. No new cases, but he didn't let them bother him. He was going to find something even if he had to go nag Lestrade face-to-face. And that's precisely what he was going to do once he'd finished his tea.

John woke up and stretched, yawning loudly before getting out of bed and shuffling down to the kitchen in his pajamas. "Morning," John said, glancing over to see if he could read Sherlock's mood. Was it still tolerable like the night before? "Found anything?"

"No new emails, but I thought I'd go see Lestrade, you know, just in case," Sherlock said. "Do you want to come with or should I just nip out?" 

"You can go ahead, just call me if there's anything good and I will come meet you," John said. "Or anything dangerous. Don't go off alone."

"Aw, it's so sweet the way you treat me like I'm a five-year-old child," Sherlock said sarcastically. "I promise I'll check it in when I get there and I won't talk to any strange men at the bus stop." He slipped on his coat and scarf and opened the door, but first turned back to John. "Do you need me to bring you anything back -- any shopping or what not?"

"Thank you," John said as if he couldn't read the sarcasm. "And no, I think we're good for now."

Sherlock smirked and headed out. Unfortunately he didn't get much joy at Scotland Yard -- Lestrade had no cases, but he did have a question, which Sherlock pounced on as if its importance was equivalent to the recovery of the Crown Jewels. He needed to check one or two things at the library so he sent John a text letting him know he was heading there. He found his answers within the hour and stopped back to give them to Lestrade and then he had nothing to do again.

It continued like this for the next few days. John went back to work so Sherlock had more time without distraction, which actually only made things more difficult. He dug out a few experiments he'd been meaning to look at it, but none lasted more than a few hours. He'd even called his brother, who sent him on what was probably a wild goose chase for completely irrelevant information, but Sherlock did it, just to keep busy. 

In the evenings he worked hard at trying not to pout. He'd realised that he wanted to treat John a bit better. Maybe it was stupid or maybe it was just because he'd hadn't had much else to think about, but Sherlock had realised that John always treated him pretty well. John was a good friend, in fact, he was Sherlock's best friend. He hadn't been looking for a best friend when he'd invited John to the flat. But that's what he'd become and even though the concept sometimes made Sherlock's stomach hurt, he thought maybe he should try to be a little nicer. 

Sherlock knew John had the weekend off, so on Friday, he picked up some food to surprise him with dinner. As he passed Mrs Hudson's door, she opened it and said, "Your man was back."

"What man?" Sherlock said.

"The man from the other day," she said. She handed him a piece of paper.

"Fine, thanks," he said, stuffing the paper into his pocket.

"What have you got there?" she asked.

"It's dinner and possibly leaking and I should probably be getting it upstairs, don't you think?" he snapped. Then he saw her face and said, "Sorry. I'm just . . . ."

"I know," she said. "Bored. Fine . . . I was just passing on information." She turned and went back into her flat. 

Sherlock headed upstairs. He knew he probably shouldn't have spoken to her like that, but he'd been trying so hard to not take out his boredom on John -- did he have to control his tone of voice to everyone? Is that what normal people did all the time? It must be exhausting. He put the food in the oven on a low temperature to stay warm and then hung up his coat and scarf. When John got back to the flat, Sherlock had tea ready for him.

As John walked home, he thought about the last week. In some ways, it'd been the strangest John had experienced since living with Sherlock, if only for the fact that, instead of being experimented on, John was being treated very nicely. Not that Sherlock was normally mean, exactly, but John could tell he was putting in a real effort to be nicer. In return John was putting up more and more requests for cases on their blog, reaching out for anyone who might have something or know someone who had a case for them. So far there were no takers. When he came home from work on Friday and smelled dinner, he couldn't help smiling as he looked through the flat. And tea was ready as well. 

"Work okay?" Sherlock asked John, smiling a little, before he realised it wasn't a natural smile and probably looked menacing so he adjusted his face to normal.

"Yeah, Sherlock, thanks," John said. He watched Sherlock's face as he tried to find a comfortable way to set it and he chuckled softly. "Any news from Lestrade?" he asked as he turned off the oven and served up dinner. 

"No," Sherlock said. "Something soon I'm sure. That mystery guy stopped by again. I'm not even convinced he's a client actually -- he's probably just trying to sell us something -- but I can try ringing him tomorrow." He sat down at started to fiddle with his food. "Do you want to do something tonight? Together, I mean?"

John took a bite just as Sherlock asked his question so it took John a moment to swallow and answer. "I can't tonight, I have a date. Well, just drinks but . . . yeah," he said. "Sorry," he added, feeling like he had to. Now that they had been spending so much time together, he felt a bit like he was ditching Sherlock. 

"Right," Sherlock said, pushing some food into his mouth. He chewed and then swallowed awkwardly. "Right," he said again. "I was going to work on an experiment anyway -- I was out earlier to get some supplies. I'll work on that, good, yeah, good. Where'd you meet this one? STD clinic?" he tried to make himself smile.

John rolled his eyes and shook his head, but he smiled softly as well. "I'll have you know that she is very nice," he said. I'll make sure to keep her away from you so she stays that way," he teased. 

"That hurts," Sherlock said. "You act like I have a corrupting influence on people. I don't -- look at you. We spend a lot of time together and you are still . . . well, whatever you were, you still are."

John laughed. "'Whatever I am?' I am insane, is what I am, and I blame you completely!" He finished his dinner and ruffled Sherlock's hair as he passed him to take his plate to the sink. 

Sherlock ate a few more bites and then pushed his plate forward. "I'll wash up later," he said. "You having tea or are you off?" he asked, turning on the kettle.

"I'll be leaving in an hour but I don't want tea. I should take a shower, actually." he stood and stretched, taking all of the plates to the sink. He went into the bathroom for a quick shower and then went to his room to change his clothes. By the time he was done it was nearly time to go.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, holding his tea up to his face and thinking about what he was going to do for the rest of the night. He didn't have any ideas. He looked up at John coming down the stairs. "You look handsome," he said. "I hope she's worth it."

John flushed lightly and nervously fussed with his hair. "You and me both. I'll see you later," he said as he put his jacket on. He made sure he had his phone and his wallet before he left, heading for the pub. 

Sherlock sat there in the silence as he finished his tea. Now he was bored again.


	4. Confusion

Sherlock got up and made himself another cup of tea before moving over to the desk. There was one email; it wasn't a potential client but a journalist so he deleted it immediately. He read the news online and then stood up and just looked around the flat. It seemed so . . . empty. It was a stupid thing to think really. He needed to get a grip on things.

He took a hot bath and then changed into his pajamas. He glanced at the clock but then wished he hadn't. It made him feel like he was waiting for John to come home. He wasn't. John had gone out and Sherlock had stayed home. That's all that was happening. He carried his laptop into his room and lay down on his bed. Maybe he could post something on John's blog that could generate some interest? He tried to think about his small experiments this week, but knew that most of them would be seen as what John called "dry," which Sherlock knew was just a polite way of saying dull. Maybe he could try to spice it up a little like John did when he wrote up the cases? He clicked the sidebar to read John's first post about the taxi driver. That case hadn't needed any 'spicing up' -- it was brilliant. It was one of Sherlock's favourite memories. He skimmed through the comments below it, seeing something from Molly and Donovan and John's sister. Then he noticed one that was left just last week from someone called Bill, the guy John had mentioned. He clicked the next post and he'd left a comment there as well. Sherlock kept reading.

The guy's early comments were pretty generic, things like "Well done, Sherlock" and "Impressive." But soon their tone shifted. They seemed more . . . personal. And then he got to the post about Henry. His eyes scanned down the page and saw a comment Bill had left only a couple hours ago.

_Reminds me of what happened at the bridge. Remember?  
_ Bill 18 May 19:13

Sherlock tried to think. One of the pub landlords was called Bill -- did something happen with him on a bridge? Sherlock couldn't even really remember being on a bridge in Dartmoor. He clicked on the next post and scrolled all the way down.

_I miss you.  
_ Bill 18 May 20:15

What the hell was this guy doing? He clicked on the name to try to find an email address or some information about the sender. He thought about their visitor -- had John said that guy was called Bill? And then he remembered the note Mrs Hudson had given him. He set the computer aside and rushed to his coat, digging the paper out and uncrumpling it. All it had on it was a phone number and a name.

Billy.

It wasn't Bill contacting Sherlock. It was Billy.

Except it couldn't be. Sherlock carried the note back to his bed and grabbed his phone. He typed in the number and stared at the screen for a few moments before hitting Send. He listened to it ringing. And then he heard the voice saying hello.

It was Billy. Sherlock knew it. It was Billy's voice.

Sherlock couldn't speak. None of this made sense.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock hung up, dropping the phone onto the bed. His heart was beating too fast. For a moment, it felt like he couldn't breathe. Was he breathing? He had to think for a second. Yes, he was breathing. But his head was spinning. None of this made sense. He needed help. He needed John. He grabbed his phone.

_Come home. SH_


	5. Panic

John was up at the bar ordering a third round of drinks when he felt his phone buzz. He checked the message quickly and frowned. Lovely Sherlock was gone and bored Sherlock was back, it seemed. 

_Sorry, but no. Didn't you have an experiment to work on? -JW_

John put his phone away to carry the drinks and, back at the table, he didn't pull it out again. He and his date continued chatting, and John found he was having a nice time. Of course, a small part of his brain was stuck on Sherlock and what might be going on at the flat. If things were back to normal, was Sherlock going to shoot everything? Trash the sitting room? Light something on fire? He tried to focus on his date. Sherlock would be fine. 

At the flat, Sherlock wasn't fine.

_You're needed. SH_

When John's date got up for the bathroom, he checked his phone again and sighed softly. 

_Is it for a case? I will be home at the end of the night, Sherlock. -JW_

"You keep checking that thing."

John looked up to find his date sliding back into her seat, closer to him now and smiling happily. "It's my friend slash business partner," he mumbled. "Something has come up, a case, I think."

"Oh! Like those ones you write about? Can I come?"

John shook his head. "No, he wouldn't like that at all -- not that he wouldn't like you," he corrected quickly at her pout. "Just . . . he's peculiar about that sort of thing. He can handle one night," he smiled, leaning closer as well and touching her arm to distract her. She decided they needed to dance, so they left the pub to find a new place to do that. 

_Please, John_

Sherlock stared at the words and then deleted them. He knew what was happening. And he also knew why. Sherlock was the boy who called wolf. He really needed John, but he had no way to make John understand the threat was real this time.

He tried to put it out of his mind. This was someone playing a joke. Moriarty? Maybe. It had to be. Who else would go to so much trouble to mess with Sherlock's mind like this? Yes, that's all it was. Someone trying to upset Sherlock. It had to be.

He got up to make himself a cup of tea. He felt a bit sick. He glanced over at the window. He suddenly felt like he was being watched. He quickly moved over and turned off all the lamps. Why wasn't John home yet? Had someone done something to John?

No. That was all stupid. All of this was stupid. It wasn't Billy. Billy was dead.

John had no idea if his phone was going off any more. The club was loud and dark, and in all honesty it was hard to concentrate with this lovely woman dancing against him. He let himself get lost in the strong beat of the music and her panting breaths as they danced song after song. He wondered if they would go home together and hated that he immediately felt guilty about that -- what about Sherlock? He tried to put him out of his mind and just enjoy the night.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and turned on the telly. He didn't really watch it, just somehow having its sound and light felt better. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his head. This couldn't be happening. He heard a noise on the stairs. He opened his eyes and froze, waiting.

Except it was nothing. He realised it immediately. It wasn't a noise on the stairs. It was nothing. His phone vibrated. "John," Sherlock said as he grabbed it.

_Please let me see you. I'll explain. I've missed you._

Sherlock felt his eyes begin to well. Even Moriarty couldn't be this good, could he? No. Sherlock couldn't pretend this wasn't real now. He still didn't understand any of it, but he couldn't pretend it wasn't real. It had to be. It felt real. He opened a new text.

_John, I really need you. SH_

He sat on the sofa and waited.


	6. Nothing Makes Sense

John's night came to an end when the club started to empty out a bit. Most people were going in search of a new place to keep partying, but John and his date were strolling the quiet street, making plans for another date. When John hailed a cab for her, she made it clear that she would be going home alone but stated again how happy she was that they would see each other soon. John smiled and waved as she left before turning towards Baker Street and heading home himself. He pulled out his phone and read Sherlock's latest message, grumbling a little before stuffing the phone away. What were the chances that a proper case had come in on the only night that John went out this week? Very slim, he knew. 

When he arrived at the flat he hung his coat and looked into the dark sitting room where Sherlock was sitting. It didn't look like he had left the flat at all. "And what, pray tell, is the big emergency, Sherlock?"

"Are you alone?" Sherlock said, trying to make his voice sound calm.

"Of course I am alone. You know I don't bring dates here for the night," he said. 

"And no one followed you? Are you safe?"

John's brows furrowed. He hadn't really been looking out for anyone following him -- he hadn't noticed anyone suspicious. "No, no one followed me," he said. "I'm fine. Sherlock, what is going on?" he asked again. Was Sherlock just being dramatic again?

"Nothing," Sherlock said. "Nothing's going on." He felt like he couldn't look up at John -- he felt like he wanted to grab him, hold him, or have John hold him. That wasn't normal. That was stupid. "Nothing," he repeated again.

John raised his brows and shook his head. "Right. Well then I am going to go to bed and when you decide it's not nothing anymore, you can come and get me." He turned for the stairs and headed up to his room, shutting the door but only a little bit, so that it didn't seem like he was completely closing Sherlock off. 

Sherlock stayed on the sofa. He was glad John was back, but that chat wasn't really what Sherlock had needed. He needed . . . what? To talk? How could he explain when he didn't even understand? He got up and went to his room. He opened the computer and stared at the last comment. He didn't even look to see if any more had been sent. He went through every post and deleted every single one of the comments. He closed his laptop. He lay down and tried not to think.

John changed into pajamas and lay down, glancing at his computer and considering getting on the blog again. He decided he would do that in the morning, his head a bit too muddled to do too much with it now anyway. He turned his back to the desk and tugged the covers up, closing his eyes to try to get some sleep. 

In his room, Sherlock was still thinking. He'd started out trying to understand, but soon he was remembering and that's the last thing he wanted to do. He got out of bed and opened his bedroom door. He glanced at the window and then moved towards John's bedroom. He knocked softly on the door.

John shifted onto his arm and looked at the door. "Sherlock? Come in," he murmured, reaching to turn on the bedside lamp. 

Sherlock stepped in. "Don't turn on the light," he said softly. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Can I . . . just sit in here for a couple minutes?"

John paused with his hand hovering over the switch. He lay back down and faced Sherlock. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. How could he answer that question truthfully without telling him everything, even things he couldn't make any sense of? "I -- I just had a nightmare, I guess," he said quietly.

John licked his lips lightly and nodded. "I, um, do you want to lay down for a bit?" he asked gently. 

"Yeah, maybe," Sherlock said. He pushed himself back up the bed and lay back a little. He stayed silently for a few moments. "John, something's happened. . . "

John waited patiently but when nothing came, he broke the silence. "You can talk to me."

"I can't . . . explain," Sherlock said. "But could I just sit in here for a bit?"

John tried not to voice his disappointment. If Sherlock didn't want to talk about it, John wouldn't force him. "You can stay as long as you need to," he said instead. 

Sherlock sat quietly. It did feel better to not be alone. He hadn't felt this need for a long time. It was worrying, but he couldn't deny feeling it tonight and feeling glad John was here to help him. He swallowed awkwardly. "I've . . . done bad things in my life, John," he whispered.

John didn't speak, only reached his hand out and touched Sherlock's arm lightly, letting him know that he was listening. 

Sherlock instinctively moved his hand to rest on John's. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

John waited for a long time. He dozed, sometimes snapping up violently with the thought that Sherlock had been speaking and he had missed something. But it was all quiet, and eventually he nodded off properly.


	7. Mycroft Gets Involved

In the morning John blinked his eyes open against the light coming in, yawning and reaching his arm out. 

John's arm hit Sherlock in the face and he snapped his eyes open. "John?" he said worriedly before he remembered everything. "I'm sorry . . . I fell asleep here. I'm sorry." He sat up and then stood. "I'm sorry . . ." he said again.

John apologised when he made contact with Sherlock's face. "It's fine, calm down. Sit down," he said, yawning and stretching again. 

Sherlock sat down with his back to John. "I'm sorry I came in here . . . I'm sorry I can't properly explain," he said.

"Don't be sorry for any of that. Do you feel better?" he asked. 

"I --" Sherlock said. "I don't know what to do, John."

John looked at the back of his head, considering reaching out to touch his arm or shoulder. Somehow it felt odd now that it was day time. "I can help, Sherlock. I want to."

"I . . . know and . . . thank you," Sherlock said softly. "But I can't explain. I'm sorry." He stood up. "I'm going to make some tea."

John sighed softly and watched him go. He got up and went to the bathroom to freshen up before heading down for tea. He realised he forgot the laptop in his room but he left it for now, keeping his eye on Sherlock instead. 

Sherlock heard John behind him so he poured two cups of tea. He gave one to John and moved over to the sofa. "I -- I don't know what to say, John," he said. "I'm sorry . . ."

"Sherlock, you don't have to apologise to me. I just want to help, whenever you're ready," he said. 

"John . . ." Sherlock said. It felt reassuring to say his name, but he didn't know what else to say. 

John sipped on his tea and again, waited through several seconds of silence. "Sherlock, just -- you can tell me anything, you know that." He was behaving so oddly, John wished he had come home last night when Sherlock had asked. 

"I'm . . . confused, John," Sherlock said. "I don't understand what's going on and . . . I don't like that." He finished his tea. "I might go into my room for a bit but you'll stay in the flat, right?"

"Confused about what?" John asked, trying not to get frustrated with the lack of information. "Sherlock, please..."

"Promise not to leave, John," Sherlock said as he stood up. "Please."

"Sherlock, I'm not leaving. Just tell me what is going on," he said. 

"I -- I'm going to go in my room for a bit, okay?" Sherlock said. He went into his bedroom and sat down on his bed. He took a deep breath and then put his head in his hands and cried.

John stepped forward to follow him, then heard the sound and paused awkwardly. He didn't know what was going on, but Sherlock wasn't sharing. And going into his room now, invading that space, would only make things worse. As hard as it was, he'd need to be patient. He went up to his own room and opened the laptop, going to the blog out of habit while he tried to listen for Sherlock. Then something caught his eye -- the comment numbers were lower, significantly lower than last time he had been on. It didn't take long to see why. Every comment left by Bill, including John's replies, were gone. Deleted. Had Sherlock done this? Why?

Did Sherlock know that man? He remembered the man who had stopped by, who had hung up when John had called him. Had Sherlock called him -- had he hung up on Sherlock as well or had they spoken? What had they talked about? Was he a client or something else? What was happening? Sherlock usually lived for danger and mystery, but now he was crying and distraught. He seemed . . . afraid. All of this had to be connected. He went back downstairs and knocked on the door lightly. 

"Sherlock? Sherlock, why did you delete the messages on the blog? Who is that man?" He knew he should have tried a more gentle approach, but if Sherlock was in trouble, and so very upset, there was no time for that. 

Sherlock looked towards his bedroom door. "Don't, John," he said softly. "Please . . ."

"Who is he? Has he hurt you? Please tell me . . . what's going on?" he asked. 

"No, I'm the one . . ." Sherlock started but then stopped. "Please, John -- I can't talk about it."

John sighed and leaned again the door, waiting for one more second before turning to go. He needed answers so that he could help Sherlock and if Sherlock wouldn't give them, then he was going elsewhere. 

_Who is Bill? And don't ignore me either, I am trying to help your brother. -JW_

_I'll need a little more information Doctor Watson. MH_

_Someone called Bill was leaving messages on the blog and now he's harassing Sherlock. Sherlock is acting odd. Who is Bill? -JW_

_I'll get back to you. MH_

Mycroft opened a text to Sherlock.

_What is going on? MH_

Sherlock reached for his phone.

_Billy. SH_

_Explain. MH_

_He's alive. SH_

_No, he's not. MH_

Sherlock dialed Mycroft's number. "He is," he said when his brother answered. He paused for a moment. "Did you know?"

"No," Mycroft said.

"Did you?"

"What's happened?" Mycroft asked.

"I heard his voice," Sherlock said.

"You've spoken to him?"

"He's . . . been on John's blog and came to the flat when we weren't here. He left a number and I called. But I didn't speak. And then he texted."

"Could it be Moriarty?" Mycroft suggested.

"No," Sherlock said. "Mycroft, what's going on?"

"Let me look into it," Mycroft said. "Don't see him. Don't text him. Don't -- don't do anything, Sherlock, until you hear from me."

"All right," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock --" Mycroft said. "Are you okay?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I'm not." He hung up and set his phone next to him on the bed. He tried to tell himself that when it rang again, Mycroft would know what was going on. When it rang again, this would all go away and his past could stay in the past where it belonged.


	8. Fear

John's phone vibrated.

_Keep Sherlock in the flat. Do not interact with the person using that name. I'll be in touch. MH_

John still felt in the dark but at least it was something. He went back downstairs. "Sherlock? I'm going to make some tea, if you want any."

Sherlock looked at his phone, urging it to ring. Mycroft knew everything, he could fix everything. He wanted him to hurry and fix this.

John went to the kitchen and made the tea, bringing Sherlock a mug anyway. "I brought your mug. I'll set it on the floor here." He waited for a moment before moving away from the door reluctantly.

"John?" Sherlock called. "Can you come in for a moment?"

John moved so quickly he almost tripped on the mug on the ground. He picked it up and went into Sherlock's room slowly. "How are you?" he asked.

"John, I think it might be good if one of us left for a little while," Sherlock said. He was grateful the lamp was off, because he couldn't bear to look at John as he spoke.

John flushed. "No. No, I don't think that's a good idea at all."

"But it might not be…safe for you. With me, I mean. I just want you to be safe," Sherlock explained. He took a sip of tea and for some reason it tasted like the best tea he'd ever had. It tasted reassuring, like his phone would ring any second from now and all would be okay again.

"No," John said again. "No one is leaving this flat. I don't know exactly what is happening, but we are both staying right here."

"John," Sherlock said. "Don't leave but don't let me . . ." He tried to think of the right word. "…ruin you. You're good, John, and I'm not."

"You won't. You are good, too, Sherlock. You're the best -- you're my best friend. Please . . . I just want to help you."

The words best friend filled Sherlock with multiple feelings -- warmth but also fear. "John --" he said. Then his phone rang. He grabbed it quickly.

"What is going on?" he asked.

"I need the number he gave you," Mycroft said.

"Fine," Sherlock said. He opened his Inbox and found Billy's text. He paused -- it was personal but in truth Mycroft knew everything and if knowing the number would make this end . . . Sherlock forwarded it to Mycroft. He looked up at John. "I hurt people I love, John," he said softly.

John put his mug down and moved around the bed to sit next to Sherlock, reaching over to hold his hand. "Do you want to tell me?"

Sherlock let John touch him. It also felt reassuring. But it wouldn't solve the problem. "I don't know, John. I don't know anything anymore."

"Well, that's not true," John whispered.

Sherlock knew it was true. Or at least felt true. Suddenly he felt the urge to wrap his arms around John, to pull him down onto the bed, and curl around him. But he couldn't do that. Those kinds of feelings were too much for Sherlock, which is why he'd made them go away from his life a long time ago. "Maybe I need to rest more," he said, letting go of John's hand. "Until Mycroft calls back."

John glanced at his hand. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked.

"Don't leave, John," Sherlock said in a panicked voice. And then he realised John probably meant leave the room. "I think I'll just lie here for a bit . . . by myself, I think." He lay back on the bed.

John hesitated. "I don't mind staying with you, like last night in my room."

"No, John," Sherlock said. "Please."

John hesitated again, watching Sherlock lie down. "Okay. Just . . . I'll be on the sofa if you need anything." He stood and touched Sherlock's leg before leaving and sitting on the sofa closest to the room.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He knew there were things in his Mind Palace he didn't want to visit, but those things had been there a long time -- last week they were there and he was able to look past them, keep those doors shut and locked. He tried to do that now. He tried to go inside to the nicer memories and get lost there for just a little while.

John held his phone tightly and sat in the quiet. He didn't like this at all -- usually he was lost when it came to Sherlock and his brother, but this seemed really serious, and he had never seen Sherlock behave in this way before. He seemed scared, he was doubting himself -- things John was not used to seeing. He didn't bother with the telly. He just sat in the silence and willed Mycroft to call one of them. And then his phone rang.

"Doctor Watson?" Mycroft asked even though it was obvious to whom he was speaking.

"Yes, Mycroft. What's happening?" John demanded.

"I have some information I'd like to give you before I give it to my brother. I will attempt to give you a full picture -- you may ask questions, but as you well know, there are sometimes in life when it is neither helpful nor necessary for all parties to know everything. The man who has been contacting Sherlock is someone from his previous life . . . before you, before the Sherlock you know. My brother was under the impression that this man was dead; however, he is not and now Sherlock knows this. I do not believe this man will attempt further contact, but if he does, it is quite essential that Sherlock knows nothing about it. He should not even know, let alone see or speak to or communicate with him, in absolutely any way. That's the whole story."

John blinked for a moment. He was joking, right? That was hardly any information at all! "What happened to him? Or what does Sherlock think happened to him? And he has Sherlock's number, I can't take his phone away," he added.

"He will not ring Sherlock's phone and the number Sherlock has is no longer in service, so Sherlock cannot contact him," Mycroft said. He paused, not sure if he should answer John's other questions. "He died of an overdose," he said, hoping that would explain everything, all the while knowing it would not.

John sat still for a moment, thinking of Sherlock's words before. _I hurt the people I love_. John looked at Sherlock's room and sighed softly. "Okay. I will look after him," he said.

Mycroft said nothing for a moment. "Please do, John," he said. "I -- Sherlock will not understand my decision, I know that. But he was broken before . . . and the death . . . Sherlock's stubbornness. . ." He knew he was rambling, and rambling was not something Mycroft Holmes did. He coughed and then spoke again. "He forced himself to be shattered before I could help. He's mended now, the pieces are all in place. It appears you are now one of those pieces . . . help him stay together."

John felt his eyes burning, and he fixed his gaze on Sherlock's room again. Had Bill's death been the thing to put Sherlock on the path to recovery? What would happen if Sherlock were to find out that he'd been alive all along? Mycroft was worried about it, and he knew that situation better than John did. If he was worried, John was worried. "I will," he promised. When they hung up, John went to make a new round of tea, leaning on the counter as he waited for it to boil.

Sherlock's phone vibrated. He rolled over on the bed, took a deep breath, and read the message.

_Things in your past remain in the past, brother. There is no need for concern. MH_

Sherlock stared at the words. They took them back to that night. He remembered Mycroft's arrival, being rushed out of Billy's flat, turning and watching it disappear as the car drove away. That night Mycroft had said there was no need for concern. Sherlock hadn't believed him -- he had been lying next to Billy's dead body, of course there was a need for concern. But Sherlock had said nothing that night. He couldn't do the same tonight.

_Is he alive? SH_

_He's gone, Sherlock. It's all in the past. MH_

Sherlock threw his phone hard across the room. That was not a satisfactory answer and both brothers knew that.


	9. Death

John jumped at the sound and hurried into the room. "Sherlock? What happened? Are you okay?" 

"John," Sherlock said. He looked up at him slowly. "I don't think I'm okay."

John hurried to turn off the kettle before coming back to the room and sitting on the edge of the bed. "Sherlock, it's going to be okay."

"I don't think it is, John," Sherlock said, lying down and turning away again. "You don't know . . ."

John decided against mentioning what he knew. "You can tell me anything," he murmured.

"My life before you . . ." Sherlock said.

John sat up on the bed a bit more and rubbed his back gently. He didn't press. He just waited.

"You keep touching me," Sherlock said softly. "You never have before . . . not like this." 

John pulled his hand back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to . . ."

"Do you want to stop?" Sherlock whispered. "It's good, in a way, I guess."

John reached out slowly and pet his back again, rubbing lightly. "I like it . . . if it's helping you feel better," he said.

"You always help," Sherlock said. He lay quietly for a few moments, just feeling John's touch on his back. "My life before you . . ." he started again. "I did bad things."

John didn't say anything -- denying it was pointless. He rubbed Sherlock's back and let him speak.

"And I had . . . another friend," Sherlock whispered.

John kept rubbing Sherlock's back, letting him know that it was okay.

"He died," Sherlock said. "I killed him." He swallowed hard, feeling tears spill from his eyes. "Except he didn't die, I know now."

"Sherlock, I know you didn't on purpose. It was an accident," John murmured.

Sherlock turned round towards John. "I did do it on purpose," he said. 

"Even if you were involved, that's not the same thing, as doing it on purpose," John reminded him gently.

"It is, John," Sherlock said. "We were both . . . we were both just tired of it all . . . we'd decided, we planned it. I . . . it didn't kill me. But it killed him. I did it on purpose. It's what we both wanted to happen. It was my fault it killed him and my fault it didn't kill me."

John's eyes burned and he blinked them hard. Why wouldn't Mycroft tell Sherlock he was alive to ease this guilt? John hated it. "It's not your fault, okay? It was . . . it was just a mistake." He leaned down and kissed Sherlock's temple, pressing his lips there for a long moment before moving away. 

Sherlock lifted his hand to hold John's arm. "I don't understand what happened . . . how he is alive, I know he was dead, John, I saw him," he said, crying softly.

John wiped his tears gently. "These things happen . . . I've seen it in the field."

"Did he trick me?" Sherlock said. "Why would he trick me for all these years . . ." 

"Maybe he didn't know how to find you," John said softly. 

"But why isn't he dead?" Sherlock asked. "I mean, did he die?" He put a hand to his face. "I can't understand any of this."

"He must not have. You must have just thought he did," John said. 

"I saw him, John," Sherlock said, just letting himself cry now. "I didn't want him to be dead if I was alive. I didn't want that . . . but I saw him, I know he was dead . . ."

John lay down and pulled Sherlock close so he was crying into John's neck. "I know, Sherlock. I know." Examples and stories wouldn't help Sherlock now. He petted his hair and back softly. 

Sherlock lay crying quietly for a while. He wanted it to make sense. He was sure he'd feel better if only it made sense. "I want to speak to him," Sherlock said.

"To who?" John asked, hoping Sherlock meant his brother. 

"To Billy," Sherlock whispered.

John bit his lip. "I don't know, Sherlock."

Sherlock had no fight in him. He stayed pressed close to John. "Don't move out, John," he said.

"Never," John said. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I tried to be better, John," Sherlock said sleepily. "I thought you made me better."

"You've done so well, Sherlock. I'm proud of you." He was speaking even softer now, rocking lightly so that Sherlock would fall asleep. He needed to rest.

Sherlock heard sounds from John's mouth, but he was suddenly too tired to understand the words. He was falling. "Don't die," he exhaled and then he was asleep. 

John leaned his head down, nose buried in Sherlock's hair, kissing the top of his head quickly. He mumbled a nice story, something sweet and relaxing and hoped that Sherlock could sleep peacefully.

In Sherlock's dream John was holding him closely and whispering things in his ear. It was good. He felt safe. He turned his head to kiss him. He slid his hand up John's arm but hit something. He looked down at the syringe in his arm before looking up and seeing John sleeping. But he wasn't sleeping. He wasn't sleeping.

"John!" Sherlock called, waking himself up sharply. He moved to put his hand on John's cheek, turning his head. "John! Wake up, please, wake up."

John gasped and reached out to touch Sherlock, to grab his arms, and calm him down. "Sherlock, shh. I'm here, you're safe." John repeated that over and over until he was sure that Sherlock was looking at him and not the nightmare. 

"I'm sorry . . ." Sherlock said. "God, John, don't let me hurt you."

"You haven't, and you won't. You had a bad dream but we are both safe," John said.

Sherlock stayed close to John. "I loved him," he whispered. "And when he died, I . . . had to make myself stop feeling . . . anything. Until you came here, John."

John flushed darkly, the implications of that sinking in quickly. He didn't even think about it before he said, "I love you, too." It was soft, and a bit shy, but it was true. "I am going to protect you, Sherlock. It's okay now."

Sherlock closed his eyes again. He took a long inhale and even longer exhale. He let himself go back to sleep.

John's mind was racing too fast to sleep again, so he watched over Sherlock instead. 

This time Sherlock didn't dream or if he did, they weren't bad enough to wake him up.

John dozed in and out as the night went on. He shifted them down so they were laying properly, tugged the covers up, and still was in and out of sleep until the sun was starting to come in through the window. Sherlock hadn't moved too much, and John was grateful for that.


	10. Memories

Sherlock opened his eyes to the morning. "We slept here together," he said quietly.

"Yes," John mumbled.

"Will you stay home from work today?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John said immediately. "I'll stay home as long as you need."

"Let's just try to be normal," Sherlock said, even though he wasn't entirely sure what he meant.

"Okay," John said, but he didn't let go of him.

Sherlock lay still. "Did you mean what you said last night or were you just trying to be kind?" he asked quietly.

John swallowed nervously. "I meant it," he said.

"All right," Sherlock said. He was glad that John hadn't taken it back, but the weight of those feelings sat heavy on his heart right now. "Mycroft said it's all been sorted. Let's go back to a few days ago, before I knew. Let's go back to how it was."

"Not exactly though, right?" John asked softly.

Sherlock put a soft kiss on John's forehead. "No, not exactly how it was," he said, trying to make a little smile. At the moment, he felt okay about revealing his feelings to John, but he didn't want to think too much about it for fear that it would remind him of the other thing he was trying not to think about. He stretched a little in the bed and then made a move to get up. "I need tea," he said.

"Stay. I'll go make it and bring it in," John said. He climbed out of bed and went to the kitchen to start the kettle.

Sherlock followed John to the kitchen, his eyes scanning the flat quickly. "We're being normal," he said. "You never bring me tea in bed in the morning, so that's not normal."

John looked over at him and nodded. "Okay. But I've never been in your bed so there isn't a normal for that," he said, smiling softly. 

"Fair point," Sherlock said. "What are we going to do today?" he asked as he sat down at the table and fiddled with the papers spread across it.

John hadn't really thought about how to keep Sherlock busy. "Um . . . oh, there's a human body exhibit at the museum, that would be interesting."

"No, let's stay at the flat," Sherlock said quickly. He didn't want to say it aloud, but he was afraid to leave just yet.

"Okay." John gave him his tea as he sat down. "We can play a game or watch a film or we could clean?" he smiled. 

"Fine, let's clean. After tea," Sherlock said, getting up and moving over to the sofa. "It's bright out this morning," he said, glancing over at the window.

John was a bit surprised by Sherlock's choice. "Yeah, it looks like a nice day out," he said. He got up and joined him on the sofa. 

Sherlock held his tea in his hands for a moment, keeping it close to his face to feel its warmth. "I'm sorry about all this . . ." he almost whispered. 

John reached out and touched his arm, squeezing lightly in answer. 

"So . . . cleaning the flat, yeah? I'm glad you've finally recognised I can't keep living in your filth," Sherlock said, trying to change the subject he himself had brought up.

John grinned and shook his head. "Yes, well, we should get started," he said. He stood up and started fixing up the papers.

Sherlock stayed on the sofa for a few moments, just watching John until John caught on and yelled at Sherlock to get moving. Sherlock stood up, washing the mugs in the sink and then tidying the rest of the things on the kitchen worktop. It wasn't too bad really and gave him something to focus on. John busied himself, avoiding touching anything in tubes or jars or anything sticky with god knows what. Sherlock moved over to his desk next, tidying it up. He threw away a few things but mostly just made piles and put things in drawers. He turned and faced his bookshelves, putting some books from the desk up where they belong. "My bedroom's tidy," he said. "You know it is now since you slept there. I hope yours looks as good." 

"My room is tidier than yours," he smiled. "You slept there the night before, remember." John turned to the sofa to fix the cover and the pillows. 

"Right," Sherlock said. He glanced over at the mantle and moved towards it. He turned and saw John fussing with the sofa, so he grabbed the skull and stuck it quickly into his bottom desk drawer. He swallowed awkwardly and then moved away from his desk. "I might go in my room," he said.

John looked up and saw Sherlock hiding the skull away. And suddenly he was hit with the memory -- Sherlock called the skull Billy before, said it was an old friend. What did that mean? Was it a reminder all this time and now . . . what was it now? Sherlock had hidden it secretly so John didn't ask about it. "Um . . . to clean up or do you want to lie down? Do you want lunch or tea?" 

"Just to . . . tidy up, I guess," Sherlock said. He wasn't really sure what he wanted, but he felt like he should be alone for a few moments. "I won't be long," he said, trying to make his voice sound normal. "Don't use my absence as an excuse to be lazy now."

John smiled softly. "Even though I suspect that's what you're doing?" 

"Come in and guard me then if you think I can't be trusted," Sherlock said, moving towards his room. He went inside and pushed the door shut a bit but not totally. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He thought about Billy. 

They had met at uni. To be honest, Billy had been the only real friend Sherlock had had during that time. They interacted with others, but there was something different about their friendship. They were more than friends, even from the beginning. They had a partnership of sorts. They made each other happy.

It had been Sherlock who had first brought drugs into their friendship. Perhaps he'd thought of it as an experiment -- he couldn't really remember now as he'd deleted some of those memories. And it had felt so good, it'd made Sherlock's brain and body feel good in ways he'd never experienced. And Billy was there and he liked it as well and then soon they were always high and Sherlock felt even happier. It was true -- being like that, especially with Billy, had made Sherlock actually feel happier than he'd thought possible. And perhaps that was what had made him lean over and kiss Billy. It was the first time he'd ever kissed someone; he'd come to university an inexperienced boy and perhaps, without the drugs, that's how he would have left. But Billy kissed him back and their friendship became more. Between the drugs, the sex, and the love -- Billy and Sherlock became everything to each other. They both were happy.

At first.

Because that's how drugs worked. Soon everything was not enough. There weren't enough drugs, Sherlock wasn't enough to make Billy happy anymore, and Sherlock was no longer happy. Neither of them knew how to stop. So they came to the only decision they could find. The only way they could end the unhappiness but still be together forever.

And then Sherlock learned that love worked like drugs worked -- they both started with good feelings but led to the worst feelings in the world. When he'd opened his eyes, he knew he wasn't dead. He knew they'd been stupid. He knew they'd just have to stop, get clean and go back to the friendship that had originally made them happy. That happiness had been enough -- why had Sherlock insisted on bringing drugs into it all? He had to apologise and convince Billy that they could do it. As long as they had each other, they could do it.

He'd turned his head and knew immediately. Billy was dead. Time stopped and Sherlock just lay there, staring at him. Now, in the flat, he held his hands over his face, pressing his palms to his eyes as if they could make the image go away. He'd wanted to delete it but knew he never would. He saw it right now. He saw it and his heart broke again.

Then Sherlock heard John's movement in the kitchen. He tried to calm himself a little. But when he closed his eyes again, he saw Billy's face. He remembered reaching for the phone and calling Mycroft. Who else could he call? And then Mycroft was there and pulling Sherlock from the room and driving him away. They'd gone to Mycroft's -- he gave Sherlock something to help him sleep and when he woke up again, Mycroft told him he was going to rehab. They both knew Sherlock had had to learn the hard way, and losing someone he loved was the hardest way, so he went to rehab and got clean. Mycroft never mentioned Billy's name again, but in rehab his counsellors had let Sherlock talk about him. They'd encouraged him to remember the good times. Shortly after leaving rehab, Sherlock had found the skull in an antique shop and, despite its morbid image to other people, it reminded him of something ridiculous he and Billy had done when they first met. It was a way to remember the good times. 

But not anymore. Because everything had been a lie. Billy had lied. Except . . . suddenly that didn't make sense. There had to be another explanation. Sherlock thought and thought and thought and then he knew. He knew who the liar was. It was Mycroft.


	11. Mycroft Tries To Explain

"John," Sherlock called from his room.

John was just pouring the water for tea when Sherlock called out. "Coming," he called. He took both mugs into the room and set them in the table before climbing onto the bed. "Are you okay?"

"It was Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Mycroft knew all along . . . he lied. He knew and he let me . . . it was all a trick to destroy me." He was rambling and he knew he was, but he was suddenly filled with such an intense hatred of his brother that he almost felt he couldn't breathe. "He lied," he said again.

"Not to destroy you," John said. "Sherlock, I know it doesn't seem like it, but he was worried about you. It . . . it was an awful thing to do, but he just wanted you to get better."

"Mycroft doesn't worry about anyone but himself," Sherlock said angrily. "He'd told me a million times how I was letting everyone down. He hated Billy and he hated me. God, he must have loved it all, watching my pain . . ." He fell back onto the bed and held his hand to his face. His stomach ached with anger.

"Sherlock, no. Look, I am always angry and griping about Harry. I have said awful things about her. But every time I hear that she is in trouble, I get worried. Mycroft must have been scared, Sherlock."

"Stop defending him, John," Sherlock said. "Look how he treated you when we first met -- he's selfish and horrible and doesn't care about anyone but himself."

"Let's talk to him. You can ask him and you can both get everything out."

"No, I never want to speak to him again," Sherlock said, and he rolled onto his side away from John. Why was John defending Mycroft? He'd committed the worst kind of betrayal -- a betrayal no one could even imagine one brother doing to another -- and John thought that was all right? Why couldn't he see how bad this was? Then he turned and reached around for his phone. "Fine," he said. "We'll bring him here and then you'll see . . ." He quickly sent a text.

_Come to Baker Street. SH_

John didn't know what to say. He sat quietly and waited for the response, his stomach turning nervously about what would happen when Mycroft arrived.

Sherlock's phone vibrated. 

_Thirty minutes. MH_

"There," he said to John. "You'll see." He pushed himself up off the bed and grabbed some clean clothes before disappearing into the bathroom.

John went out to make new tea and have a quick lunch before Mycroft arrived.

Sherlock left the bathroom and threw his pajamas into his room. He came out into the kitchen. "Don't make him tea," he said sharply. "Don't try to make him feel at home. He shouldn't feel comfortable. This isn't his home, it's mine." He filled a cup and carried it over to his chair to wait.

John didn't pour the third mug, going to sit with Sherlock to wait. "You should at least hear what he's got to say, Sherlock."

"Shut up," Sherlock said. He glanced over. "Sorry. We'll see . . . you'll see."

A few minutes later they heard the door downstairs. "Let him in," Sherlock said. His breath changed, and he needed a minute to get himself under control.

John went to get Mycroft, leading him back in to the sitting room.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said as he came in.

"You fucking liar," Sherlock snapped and then he was crying. He hadn't meant to, it just happened. He leaned over his knees and buried his head in his hands.

Mycroft stood still for a moment. "The things that have occurred in the past, Sherlock, cannot be changed. You know that. Stop behaving this way." 

Sherlock looked up at his brother. "You let it destroy me . . . you watched it destroy me and you said nothing. Fuck you and your lies." He leaned over his lap again.

All three were quiet until finally Sherlock softly asked, "How? I don't understand . . ."

Mycroft could see that part of Sherlock's anger was confusion, and he knew how painful that was for his brother. "He was never dead," he stated.

"He was dead!" Sherlock said. "I saw him! He was dead -- you said so -- and now? Now he's alive?"

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft said. " _You_ said he was dead. He wasn't. He was in a coma and I . . . he got help and he survived." 

"I know death, Mycroft, I know . . ." Sherlock said, shaking his head. "In the car home, you said he was dead. I know you did . . ."

"I wasn't in the car with you, Sherlock," Mycroft said.

"Yes, you were!" Sherlock shouted. The memory was foggy, but he knew what he remembered. "You dragged me out -- we left all my things -- and we went to your flat. You told me he was dead."

Mycroft sat down across from Sherlock. "Drugs and shock cause the memory to play tricks, Sherlock. You know that. It doesn't matter what you think you remember. I know what happened." 

Sherlock was still and silent for a moment. "What happened?" he whispered, looking down again.

"When you rang me that night . . . obviously my only concern was you. I needed to get you safe. Lestrade was with me -- he drove you to my flat. He did not tell you anything in the car. You have misremembered."

"And Billy?"

"I got him to a hospital. When he was awake again, I sent him to rehab -- not the same one you had gone to obviously. But he left after a day. I've had no contact with him since."

Sherlock was trying to understand it all. He'd been wrong. Of course, what Mycroft said all made sense. Why had he trusted his own memory, knowing he'd been high at the time? "Why . . ." he asked almost in a whisper. "Why didn't you tell me all this before?"

Mycroft stood up again. "Seeing you that night, Sherlock, was singularly the worst moment of my life. I know we haven't always got along but . . . it was painful. You'd agreed to go to rehab and I did not want . . . I couldn't have you fall again. If my decision was wrong, I am -- " he coughed and then continued, "I just wanted you to move forward. Which you have."

John was standing up -- he didn't remember having sat down or getting up again -- but he moved closer to Sherlock and sat on the arm of the chair while he talked with his brother. Not caring about Mycroft's presence, he started rubbing Sherlock's back again. He had hesitated, worried about how Sherlock would feel about it, but when he wasn't pushed away he continued. The conversation went the way John knew that it would. A misinterpreted memory and a false assumption.

"Billy is fine now, Sherlock. You didn't kill him and you didn't let him down. It's okay now," John said.

Sherlock's head was still spinning a bit. He didn't know if he could look at his brother or at John, so he stared down at the floor. "I want to see him," he stated firmly.

"I don't think that's wise," Mycroft said.

"I don't care . . I don't care what you think," Sherlock said. "Let me decide . . . for once in my life, Mycroft, let me make the decision."

Mycroft looked over at John.

"If it will ease his mind and settle his heart, I think it's a good idea," John said, startled to be asked his opinion by Mycroft.

"I have no way of reaching him," Mycroft said.

"Stop lying!" Sherlock said, looking up now. "What could happen? Is he still using? It doesn't matter -- I'm clean, I won't . . . I just . . . I just want to see him again." He glanced over at John. "I'm sorry . . ."

"Don't be sorry," John said gently. "I could reach him, through the blog."

"His comments are gone," Sherlock said. He looked over at Mycroft. "I suppose the number I have in my phone will no longer work, will it?"

Mycroft said, "No, I'm afraid that number is no longer in service."  
  
"Jesus, why must you treat me like a child?" Sherlock said.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, unable to explain that his one goal -- always -- was to protect him. Instead, he said, "Think on it overnight. If you still think it's necessary, I'll see if I can reach him."  
  
Sherlock stood up now. "Sort it now," he said. "I'm not going to change my mind."

Mycroft slipped his phone from his pocket and began typing. "When?" he asked.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock said.

"Where?"

"Here," Sherlock said. "And let me see that text before you send it."  
  
"John," Mycroft said. "You live here as well. Is this all right with you?"

"It's okay," John nodded. 

Mycroft finished typing and then turned his phone to let Sherlock read the text.

_He would like to see you at Baker Street tomorrow evening at six. This will be your last meeting. MH_

"I'll be the one to decide if I want to keep seeing him," Sherlock said and then regretted it. He reached over and grabbed John's hand. "Send it," he told Mycroft.

A few minutes later Mycroft's phone made a noise. He looked at it and then turned the phone to Sherlock's face.

_I'll be there._

"Fine. At the moment I have no more questions. You can leave," Sherlock said, standing up awkwardly. "I need the toilet," he added and moved out of the room.

"I'm going to make sure he's okay," John said as he followed Mycroft to the door. Mycroft didn't say anything else before he left.


	12. Sherlock Tries To Understand

John went to the bathroom and knocked on the door softly. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock was looking at his face in the mirror. He looked so old now -- it was like he was seeing the years on his face for the very first time. He wondered what Billy would look like, if he'd still be as handsome as he was. When he heard John's knock, he turned his head sharply and switched on the water to splash onto his face. "Yeah," he called before drying his face and hands and moving towards the door. "Don't baby me," he said as he went through to the kitchen. Then he said, "I'm sorry, John . . . I'm sorry about everything. Is it all right that I'm seeing him?"

"I support whatever decision you make," John said.

"Will you be here with me?" Sherlock said.

"I don't know . . . you want me to meet him?" John asked carefully. 

"It's not that," Sherlock said and thought for a moment. "I'd just like you to be there. I don't know why, do I have to have a reason why? I'm sorry -- I don't want it to be uncomfortable for you, but . . . I just want you to be here with me."

"Okay," he nodded. "I'll stay with you."

"All right," Sherlock said. He tried to smile. "Let's not think anymore about it for a while. Let's go to Angelo's. Let's be normal."

"Let me change my clothes and we can go." He hurried up to his room and dressed quickly, coming back down as he fussed his hair a bit. 

Out on the street, Sherlock reached over and grabbed John's hand. "This is a date, I guess, then, yeah?" he asked.

John flushed lightly and nodded. He wasn't sure about them talking about it, worried that if they did it would be ruined. "Yeah, I guess so," he smiled. 

"If you change your mind, John, please tell me," Sherlock said. "We can go back to how it was, if that's what you want."

"No. I like this, I don't want this to go back to how it was."

"Well, give it a chance before you make your final decision," Sherlock said. "I'm likely to fuck it up at some point." He looked forward as they walked.

"Sherlock, don't think like that. We've basically been doing this since I moved in. It's just us, okay?"

"All right, John Watson," Sherlock said smiling. "Don't get yourself all worked up." He opened the door and let John go in first.

John smiled and rolled his eyes lightly before sitting at their usual table. They chatted about ordinary things, possible cases and people passing by the window, before they boxed up their leftovers and headed home again. 

"It's good," Sherlock said as they walked. "This, I mean, us, right?"

"Yeah," he smiled. "I think so."

"Good," Sherlock said. He walked a little further. "I was worried, you know . . . when I realised we were different."

John nodded. "I know. But it's a good thing."

"I hope so," Sherlock said. He really did, but it was hard to think too much about any of this right now. He hoped that he'd feel clearer after seeing Billy. 

When they got back to the flat, Sherlock clicked the kettle on. "After my tea, I might have a bath," he said. "I think I'll need a little help to relax before I try to sleep."

"I think that's a good idea," John nodded. 

Sherlock took his cup of tea to his chair and settled in. He didn't even feel like checking his email -- soon hopefully, the trauma of the last few days would be eased and he could start to feel normal again. John sat down across from him, and Sherlock smiled at him. "Thanks for everything, John," he said.

"There's no need to thank me," John said, sipping his tea.

"So you say," Sherlock said. "But I mean it so I wanted to say it."

"All right then," John said. 

"All right then," Sherlock repeated. He stood up and took his mug to the sink. "I'm off for a bath then," he said. He went in to start the water and then went into his bedroom to get his pajamas.

When John finished his own tea he got into pajamas and, without thinking too much about it, he went to Sherlock's room as well. 

After his bath, Sherlock came out and found John in his bedroom. "Will you sleep in here with me?" he asked. "Is that why you're here?"

John nodded. "If that's all right with you."

"It is," Sherlock said and slid under the covers. "Is it okay if we turn out the lamp?"

John nodded and reached over to do that before shifting to get comfortable.

Sherlock lay still for a few minutes and then turn to curl around John a little. "This okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, it's perfect," John said.

It was quiet for a few moments. "Can I kiss you?" Sherlock whispered.

John flushed lightly, but he shifted and turned so their faces were closer together. "Yes," he murmured, glancing at Sherlock's lips. 

Sherlock lifted his hands to hold John's cheeks and then leaned in to give him a soft kiss. Then he kissed him again, making it last a little longer as his fingers slid through John's hair to the back of his head.

John slid his hand from Sherlock's chest to his neck, kissing him back. It was nice, it felt good kissing Sherlock. 

"I've thought about this sometimes," Sherlock admitted as they continued to kiss. "I knew I had those feelings for you . . ."

John flushed again, but he nodded. "I have those feelings, too."

Sherlock slid his body a little closer, tangling their legs together. One of his hands moved to John's back, pulling him tighter as he continued to kiss him. John followed Sherlock's lead, arching to press flush against him as they kissed. 

Sherlock's body started to warm and suddenly he could feel himself starting to get an erection. There was a part of him that didn't want to stop -- that wanted to keep going, keep feeling good, until the ultimate good feeling of release. But there were so many things in his head, so many things that could make everything go wrong. He pulled back a little. "It feels good," he whispered. "It's good when we're together."

John nodded a bit breathlessly, pressing a soft kiss on his lips. "It does feel good."

Sherlock pulled further away, lying back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "I think we should . . . try to sleep now," he said gently.

John nodded. "I think you're right," he said softly. "Can we cuddle?"

"Yeah," Sherlock said. "But don't try getting all romantic on me. Romantic is usually silly -- it was last week and it is today, you know."" Still, he pulled John into a big hug.

John smiled softly against his chest. "I will be romantic, and you will let me."

"Yeah, we'll see . . ." Sherlock said. He let his hand stroke John's back softly and took a deep breath. "I'm sleepy, John. It's all been so much these past few days . . ."

"I know, love. Just go to sleep and rest now. Tomorrow it's all going to be over."

Sherlock tried to listen to their breaths, each slowing and softening, almost matching. It wasn't long until he was asleep. He fell into a dream -- it woke him sharply but the details of it were immediately gone from his head. "John," he whispered. "Are you okay?"

John, who had fallen asleep just before Sherlock, didn't hear him. He was snoring softly, tucked close to him. 

Sherlock lay there for a minute, deciding what to do. He closed his eyes and tried to will himself back to sleep. But he was too rattled. He turned on his side. "John, please wake up," he said, a little more loudly this time.

John blinked his eyes open and shifted. "S'lock? What's wrong?" he grumbled. 

"I was dreaming . . ." Sherlock said, holding onto his arm. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. I'm sorry I woke you."

"No, it's okay. I'm okay." John shifted closer and kissed his temple. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded his head. "I just got worried about you . . . I'm sorry," he whispered. "Let's go back to sleep."

"Don't be sorry. You can always wake me if you have a nightmare," John murmured. He tugged the covers a bit tightly and pulled Sherlock closer. 

Sherlock was finally able to relax again and he was able to sleep.


	13. Waiting

In the morning, John woke up with the alarm and shut it quickly. He didn't know if he should go to work or not. 

Sherlock rolled over at the noise. "Why is the alarm going off?" he mumbled, rubbing his face with his hands.

"I have to work today," John said. "But I can call in . . . I want to be here for you."

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. "We should try to be normal, though, John," he said. "Maybe you should go . . . just as long as you're back for . . . you know, later."

"Are you sure? I will be home for this evening, Sherlock. I promise."

"Yes, I'm sure," Sherlock said, pretty sure that he was sure. Hopefully there'd be a client or something from Lestrade, just something to keep him busy while John was out. He couldn't keep John hostage here, just because he was anxious. "I'll be okay," he added. "Mrs Hudson will distract me if I get bored. And then you'll be home . . ."

"And then I will be home," John promised. He kissed Sherlock softly before getting up to get ready. 

Sherlock watched him go. He stretched a little and then dragged himself out of bed. He went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. He decided to check his email now before John left, just in case . . . in case of what? He wasn't sure, but until this was all over tonight, he just knew he'd feel better having John here if Sherlock were going to have contact with the outside world. He poured a cup for John and then took his over to his desk. He logged on to his computer and luckily the only thing there was a brief email from Lestrade -- not really a case but something that would keep him busy for a little while at least.

When John was showered and dressed, he came down to the kitchen and got his tea, moving over to Sherlock. "I'll call you when I get my lunch, I'll have a good idea about time I can get out for sure."

"All right," Sherlock said. "Lestrade's emailed so I've got something to work on." He said and then felt a bit stupid. "You know what I mean . . I'll be busy."

John kissed the top of his head. "I'll see you soon, okay?" He turned and left the flat, his mind still upstairs with Sherlock. 

Sherlock immediately got to work on Lestrade's question. He didn't want to give himself any time to get distracted by memories or worries. In fact his plan was to keep himself so busy all day that he would have no time to even pause to think about what had happened and what might happen this evening.

Unfortunately he only managed to stay distracted for a few hours. He took a fresh cup of tea and his phone over to the sofa.

_I know it's not lunch yet but I thought I'd check to see how work is going. SH_

_It's pretty slow. I could be home by 3 if I skip lunch I think. -JW_

Sherlock glanced at the clock. That seemed too far away, but he didn't want to make John worry.

_Fine. Whatever works. Anything interested happening there? SH_

_Not really. A lot of physicals, standard stuff. -JW_

_Right. But everything else is going well? SH_

Sherlock stared at the text. Would he be able to keep texting until John came home? No, of course not. He wished he could take the text back, but he couldn't. He hoped John wouldn't worry.

_Yeah, things are okay. How's it going over there? -JW_

_Fine. SH_

He sent it and then wondered if it was suspiciously short.

_I'm going to have a bath. SH_

He sent that, but then that seemed a bit stupid.

_Just come home as soon as you can. SH_

Now Sherlock knew he'd probably revealed he was starting to feel a little anxious, but he was afraid that if he sent any more texts he'd look even more worried.

John bit his lip at the rush of messages. Maybe he shouldn't have come in after all. 

_Enjoy your bath. I'll be home soon. -JW_

He skipped lunch so he could keep seeing patients in order to get home earlier. 

Sherlock did go take a bath. He did his best to let the warm water relax him. When he got out, he decided to go lie down on the bed. He didn't even bother getting dressed, just slid his body under the warm covers and curled up slightly to try to sleep for a little bit.

When he was finished, John packed up his things and left the office. It was just after three so he would get home with plenty of time for the meeting. When he arrived he didn't call out, only looked for Sherlock and found him taking a nap. He sighed softly with relief and went to the kitchen to make tea. 

Sherlock heard the noise in the kitchen and sat up sharply. He wasn't sure why he was naked in bed in the middle of the day. Quickly he remembered what was going on. "John?" he called.

John moved to the door again so Sherlock would see him. "Yeah, I just got in, I was making some tea. Are you okay?" He moved into the room properly.

"Yeah," Sherlock said. He glanced at the clock. "Thanks," he added as he took the tea. "What should we do . . . I mean, for the next couple hours?"

"Well, just relax," John said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "You can tell me about your day."

Sherlock explained the research he'd done for Lestrade and then realised that was kind of all he'd done. "Look," he said. "I'm feeling a bit sick about this evening . . . I like knowing what to expect and I cannot even imagine what to expect tonight. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," John said. "I can't imagine what you're feeling, but I'm going to be here with you and we'll face it together, okay?"

"Do you . . . are you sure you want to meet him? You don't have to do that for me if you'd rather not," Sherlock said. "I want you to be here but I know I'm being selfish."

"Sherlock, I don't mind. I want to be here for you. That's not selfish," he said. 

"But you know . . . it'll be weird, I guess, I don't know," Sherlock said. "Let's stop talking about it, yeah? I know I brought it up but let's think of something else."

John nodded, sipping at his tea. "I looked down thirty throats today, and only one of them was actually sick."

"Pervert," Sherlock joked. Then he opened his mouth. "How does mine look?" he asked.

John leaned forward and peered into his throat and grinned. "Healthy and normal. I'll mark that as thirty one."

"Good," Sherlock said. Billy entered his mind again. "What if I regret seeing him? What if the minute I open the door, I change my mind and want him to leave?" he asked, knowing there were no real answers to his questions.

"Well, then I will send him away," John said. "But you have been seeing him in your mind, and that's not doing you any good. I don't think you will regret because you will get peace," he said. 

Sherlock wasn't sure, but he knew the only way to find out was to go through with it. "Let's get up," he said. "Do you want something to eat before he arrives?"

"No, I'm okay for now," he said. "Do you want anything?"

"No," Sherlock said. He lay there for a little while. "Should we get up then?"

"Yeah, come on then," John said, stretching before he stood. 

Sherlock got himself dressed. "This is exhausting," he said. "I'll be glad when it's over." When they got out to the sitting room, Sherlock moved over to the window and looked out. He tried to imagine seeing Billy on the street and walking up to the door. He prayed that Billy wasn't still using. He turned and moved to the kitchen. "I think I'll eat a little," he said for no reason, getting out a few pieces of bread which he took to his chair.

John watched him picking at the bread. At least it was better than nothing. "Why don't we watch a film or something to pass the time?"

"Yeah, all right," Sherlock said, not very enthusiastically. He reached over and grabbed the remote, clicking the television on and flipping through the channels. "Tell me if you see something you want to watch."

"There, this is good," he said, pointing when he saw an episode of Doctor Who. 

"Fine," Sherlock said. "You're a child," he added, looking over and smiling.

"It's a good show!" John grinned. 

"Yeah, for _children_ ," Sherlock said, getting up and moving over to sit next to John on the sofa. 

John leaned over onto his shoulder and smiled as they watched the show. 

Sherlock kept his eyes closed for some of the episode -- not because he was scared, but because he liked just listening to the words and to John breathing next to him. When it was finished he opened his eyes and said, "He'll be here soon."


	14. Billy, Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Click the link if you'd like a little heartbreak.)

John turned down the volume, not wanting to shut it off completely yet and take away the only distraction they had. He was tense. He squeezed Sherlock's hand. "It's going to be okay."

"I know," Sherlock said. "And then we can go back to it being properly normal. No more ghosts . . ." He got up and moved to the kitchen. He got out a nice tea pot and cups and gave them all a rinse. He dug around in the cupboards. "Do we have any biscuits?" he asked.

"I'll go get some from Mrs. Hudson," he said, standing and moving for the door. 

"No chocolate," Sherlock called. He knew he was fussing, he didn't want to be fussing, but he also felt like he couldn't stop himself. He just had to get through this meeting and then he could be his old self.

John hurried to her flat and took some digestives before coming back up. "No chocolate," he said. 

Sherlock poured a pot of tea and put everything on a tray which he carried over to the table in the sitting room. "Do I look okay?" he asked and then regretted it. Why did it matter?

John smiled softly and nodded. "Don't worry," he said. 

A few moments later, they heard someone at the door downstairs. "I'll go get it," Sherlock said and suddenly he felt like he couldn't breathe properly. He stood for a moment, trying to inhale and exhale slowly. He glanced at John. "Okay?" he asked, though he didn't really know what he meant.

John leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Okay," he nodded. "It's okay." He had no idea what Sherlock was feeling at the moment, what he was feeling knowing [**he was about to see someone he thought was dead**](https://youtu.be/k52jS2TzqEk). 

Sherlock went downstairs and paused for a moment at the door, taking a deep breath. He opened it.

Billy was standing there.

He looked the same but different as well. Undoubtedly like Sherlock himself looked.

"Sherlock," Billy said.

"Billy," Sherlock mumbled and then stepped forward, putting his arms around him and pulling him into a hug. He was crying. "I thought you were dead . . ."  
  
"I'm sorry," Billy said, hugging Sherlock back. 

"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated, stepping back, wiping his face. "Come on, come in, let's go upstairs." He pulled him by the hand and they went upstairs. Sherlock dropped his hand as they walked into the flat. He looked up at John and then Billy. "John," he said. "This is Billy. Billy, this is John. I love him now." He couldn't believe the words had come out of his mouth like that. He felt so stupid.

Billy was watching Sherlock and then turned towards John. "Nice to meet you," he said, holding out his hand.

John stepped forward when Sherlock came in crying, but before he could say anything, Sherlock was talking. Rambling, more like it. Billy seemed to understand that it was hard for Sherlock. John silently thanked him as he shook Billy's hand. "Nice to meet you too," he said politely. 

Billy glanced around the flat. "Yes, this looks like a place where Sherlock Holmes would live," he said, smiling a little.

"Um, sit down, yeah, let's sit down," Sherlock said. He moved towards his chair but then stopped, directing Billy there instead. He leaned over and poured the tea. He poured some milk and picked up the sugar bowl. 

"No sugar," Billy said quickly.

Sherlock was sure he remembered Billy taking sugar. Were none of his memories trustworthy?

Billy noticed Sherlock's expression. "Yeah, I used to," he explained. "But not now. Now I'm healthier. I've stopped taking . . . anything unhealthy."

Sherlock looked over and then handed Billy his tea. He poured one for John and then one for himself. He glanced at the sofa, inviting John to sit down.

"So…do you work?" John asked, not knowing what to really talk about. 

"Yeah, at an art museum, if you can believe that," Billy said, glancing over at Sherlock.

"I kind of believe it," Sherlock said. "Though I find it hard to believe you're not in there destroying 'boring art'," he said.

"Yeah, boring things have grown on me these days," Billy said. "I'm much less destructive than I used to be," he added, smiling. "Are you?" 

Sherlock glanced at John. "I think so," he said. "I have my moments, I guess."

"You look well," Billy said.

"I look old," Sherlock said.

"Older," Billy clarified. "Because you are. We all are." He took a sip of tea. "You still look . . . good." He looked over at John. "So where did you two meet?' he asked.

But before John could answer, Sherlock interrupted. "Why didn't you contact me before?" he asked, trying not to sound too accusing.

"I -- uh, I . . . it took longer for me," Billy admitted. "I'd lost you, I thought, and I couldn't handle it --"  
  
"Wait," Sherlock interrupted again. "You lost me? Did you think I was dead?"

"No," Billy said. "Mycroft said you lived." He swallowed awkwardly. "But he also told me we couldn't see each other again and . . . I knew he was right."

"He told me you were dead," Sherlock said and then added, "That's what I thought . . . I thought I'd lost you."

"We lost each other, didn't we, Sherlock? I lost myself and lost you as well . . . " He paused for a moment. "Your brother tried to help but it took me longer and when I was better, I felt I should respect his request . . ."  
  
"What request?" 

"To let you move forward," Billy said. "To move forward myself."

"It wasn't his business," Sherlock said sharply.

"It was," Billy said. "He saved our lives, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock didn't know what to say. Billy watched his face and then turned to John. "So how did you meet?"

"A mutual friend introduced us when I was looking for a flat and I moved in and we . . . hit it off," he said. He smiled and looked over at Sherlock. 

Sherlock turned to Billy. "I -- it's only been . . ." he started to speak but wasn't sure precisely how to say what he wanted to say. "I . . . I couldn't . . . it wasn't until John that I could . . ." He knew he wasn't making himself clear and didn't even know why it felt important to clarify.

"It's all right, Sherlock," Billy said softly. "I only want you to be happy. That's what we both wanted, right? To be happy." He took another sip of tea. "Does John make you happy?"

Sherlock looked over at John. "Yes," he said softly.

Billy turned to John. "Does he make you happy?"

John nodded. "Yes. Most of the time," he smiled, nudging Sherlock's arm lightly. "He does."

"Are you happy?" Sherlock asked Billy.

"I'm getting there," Billy said.

"Then we both got what we wanted, I guess," Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, we took the long way round, though, didn't we? But it looks like we got there in the end," Billy said softly. He stood up. "I think I'll get going . . . I'm glad . . . I could see you."  
  
Sherlock also stood. "I'm glad as well."

John stayed behind to give them a moment alone. He was glad that Billy was alive, despite what Sherlock had gone through with the information. He hoped Sherlock's guilt would be eased now. 

"I'll walk you down," Sherlock said.

Billy shook John's hand, smiling genuinely at him. They walked downstairs but before Sherlock opened the front door, he took one of his cards from his pocket. "You can call me . . . whenever you need to," he said softly.

Billy took the card. He knew he wouldn't need Sherlock again -- they'd both grown up, neither needed each other in the way they had when they were together. "I'm glad . . . I'm glad what happened back then wasn't the ending," he said, putting his hand out to shake Sherlock's.

Sherlock ignored his hand and pulled Billy into a hug again. He squeezed him tight and pressed a kiss against his cheek. He knew it was Billy -- he remembered being close to Billy like this before -- but he also felt the difference. He didn't recognise the smell of Billy's hair, he didn't feel the warmth he used to feel.

Billy hugged Sherlock and then looked up, putting a soft kiss on his mouth. "Take care of John -- actually no, let me rephrase that -- I know you'll take care of him, you don't need me to tell you that. Instead let me say this: let him take care of you," he said.

"I will," Sherlock said. He felt his eyes well but it wasn't quite sadness. He wasn't sure exactly what he was. "I'll see you, Billy," he said.

"I'll see you, Sherlock," Billy said. He gave him a smile and then turned and walked out the door.

Sherlock stayed still for a moment and then went back up the stairs to the flat.


	15. Happy

John was cleaning up the cups and putting the biscuits away, looking up at Sherlock when he came back in. "Are you okay?" he asked. 

"Yeah, I think so," Sherlock said. He wiped his hands over his face. "Actually . . . could we go lie down for a minute?" he asked.

"Sure," John nodded, putting everything into the sink before following Sherlock to his room. 

Sherlock lay down and moved so that John could spoon him. He held on to John's hand, pressing it against his own chest. "Do you want to say anything?" he asked softly.

John laced their fingers. "He looked really well," he said. "And he seemed happy."

"Yeah, he did," Sherlock said. "He thinks I look happy."

John rubbed the back of Sherlock's hand. "I think you are getting there as well."

"You make me happy, John," Sherlock said.

"I'm so glad," John said. 

"Do I make you happy?" Sherlock asked. "Really? Don't say it just to be nice."

"You really do, Sherlock." John kept rubbing the back of his hand. "I'm a different person than the one that moved in -- a better one, and that's because of you."

"How come you never told me that before?" Sherlock asked, squeezing his hand tightly.

John shrugged. "You notice everything," he smiled softly. "Since I've been here with you . . . I walk easier, I sleep easier, I certainly don't think about my gun as much as I used to. I have a purpose. I'm not bored. You saved me," he added quietly. 

"Did not," Sherlock mumbled. He pushed back against John a little. "I love you, you know."

John kissed the back of his neck softly. "I love you, too." 

"I want to do my best by you, John, I do," Sherlock said. "I never want to make you anything but happy." He closed his eyes. He recognised John's touch and the sound of his breathing. John made him feel safe and warm. "Thank you for taking care of me," he whispered. That's what made them different. That's what made them good.


End file.
